Chapter 6 Angie
ANGIE
The slamming of the front door wakes me up from the first restful sleep I’ve gotten in way too long.
Hurriedly, I climb off my bed and rush to the window overlooking the front of the house, and see my parents backing out of the driveway.
This is the first time I’ve seen them when the sun is up, and I can’t say I’m surprised to see them leaving without a word to me.
With it being summer, our schedules clash so much that it’s like we’re roommates instead of a family.
Once they’re out of view, I mosey back over to my bed and slide under the covers.
I stare up at the ceiling. Losing myself in a memory as my eyes hone in on the speck of maroon paint that is still there from when Liam helped me repaint my room from the baby pink my mom chose. It’s such a simple spot to cover up, but years later, it’s still there.
“Oops,” I heard behind me.
I turned from where I was painting to see Liam looking at the ceiling. “Liam. Mom is gonna freak.”
“I’ll get some white paint to cover it up. She’ll never know.”
I gave him a look that I always gave him before he made a pinky promise. Days and weeks went by, and I realized my brother wasn’t coming to cover up the mistake he made.
My phone chimes on the nightstand, pulling me out of the memory with my brother.
It’s one of the more pleasant memories I have with him, when he’s not away or playing baseball, and I’m not immersed in practicing the piano.
Or where our parents aren’t putting all their attention on one of us to succeed.
Rolling to the other side of my bed, I pick up my phone and see a text from an unknown number.
Unknown number: Hi, it’s Brandon.
Me: Hi. How did you get my number?
I hesitate for a minute until I decide to save his contact info.
Brandon: It wasn’t hard. There’s not a lot of Angela Taylor’s in Philly.
Me: Creepy.
Brandon: Persistent in wanting to be your friend.
Brandon: Are you busy today?
I run through my mental calendar, then re-check the work schedule to confirm I’m definitely off.
Me: No.
Brandon: How good are you at marketing?
Me: I’m okay. I help with the restaurant's socials occasionally.
Brandon: That works for me.
Brandon: Would you mind meeting me at North Autumn Productions today?
Me: Um…
Brandon: Okay…how about lunch?
I tap my phone against my bottom lip as I think of any reason to say no to him.
Other than trying to play the piano, I really have nothing keeping me from going.
Except fear. I am terrified of opening myself up to anyone, let alone to Brandon.
Every fiber of my being is telling me this has catastrophe written all over it.
But he did something last night that has stuck with me.
It’s like he couldn’t care less about our family’s severed connection.
Me: What time?
Brandon: 12? At Brotherly Eats?
Me: Okay. I’ll see you then.
I toss my phone on my bed and stare up at that speck of paint again.
Hannah made me start seeing a therapist last year.
It was part of our deal when she let me come back to work.
And I hate to admit that my sessions have been working, but it was easier for me to officially be diagnosed instead of playing the guessing game.
After losing Liam, I didn’t think anything could get worse than a clinical depression diagnosis.
Because surely, there was no way that label applied to me, but every sign pointed to it.
On the days I don’t see my therapist, which is rare, I practice some grounding techniques:
What do I see? That paint oops on my ceiling and the morning light flooding through my windows.
What do I feel? My bedspread and I scrunch it in my hands.
What do I taste? My awful morning breath.
What can I smell? The lingering scent of the forest-scented candle I lit last night.
What can I hear? The hum of the air turning on, a car door shutting down the street, and sirens whirring in the back.
I typically do my technique when I’m feeling antsy or itchy, and last night with Brandon, along with the new feelings he’s sparked in me, has brought those feelings up.
Plus some new feelings I’m not quite ready to acknowledge yet.
With a glance at the clock on my nightstand, I decide now is as good a time as any to get my day started.
The sounds and smells of the business district at lunchtime are sensation overload as I walk down the sidewalk toward the restaurant where I’m meeting Brandon.
With the summer sun beating down on my arms and legs, I make it my mission to find an umbrella to stand under.
Or at least an awning. Because of my love of wearing black clothes year-round, I always forget how incredibly hot I get.
My heart skips a little when I see him leaning against the restaurant, looking around. His head turns when I’m a few steps away and yep, my heart definitely skipped a beat.
“Hi,” he greets as he pushes off the side and closes the last few steps between us.
“Hey.”
I’m not short, per se, as I look up at him.
But Brandon has a little more than half a foot on my five feet four inches.
His brown hair is perfectly combed back, and those hazel eyes I saw under the lights of the TapHouse are now covered by a pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses.
On anyone else, that eyewear would look dated, but on him, he pulls them off.
He has that classic boy next door look that’s nowhere close to a frat guy.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, pulling me out of my gawking.
“Starving, actually.”
He moves around me and places a hand on my lower back as he opens the door. “Then come on. This place has the best pizza—wait, you’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“Nope. Not a vegetarian. I just don’t eat a lot of dairy or gluten, if I can’t help it,” I assure him with a smile, placing my hand on his arm to reassure him when he starts to back away from the restaurant. “Brandon, it’s okay. We can eat here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Tentatively, Brandon pulls the door open and ushers us inside with a hand on my lower back—that act sends tingles spreading through my body.
The outside world is muted as we step inside this classic Philadelphia pizza spot.
As soon as the hostess is back, we’re taken to a cozy two-seater table along the window.
The worn brown table shows years of love with scrapes from silverware and rings from cups without coasters.
Moments after we’re settled in, a server comes over with two waters before leaving us to look at the menu.
“So what brought on the dietary choice?” Brandon asks after we’ve both decided what to get.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I tell him when he looks at me like I’m odd. “I just hated the bleh feeling after eating, so I decided to give it a go and I ended up liking it. But I’ll still indulge from time to time and it looks like today is that day.”
“I’m honored. Plus, it tells me a little more about you.”
“You should be,” I say with a soft smile and hope the lighting in here hides the blush I feel spreading across my cheeks. “So, the marketing? What’s that all about?”
Our waitress chooses that moment to pop back over to take our orders: a small pepperoni and veggie pizza for me on gluten-free crust and a medium meat-lovers pizza for Brandon.
“I guess I should ask if you know what I do for work?”
I grimace and shake my head.
“I’m a video game developer,” he tells me.
My head rears back in shock. “That’s so cool.”
“Thanks. Are you a gamer?”
“Not since elementary school, when I would play Mario Kart.” I almost add on with Liam, but catch myself.
Although I’m sure Brandon knows I wasn’t freely playing the game.
Sure, Liam wasn’t as obsessed with video games as James was, but like every teenage boy, a video game console was a staple in his room.
“Fair. Well, the reason I asked about marketing is because I have a game launching soon. And part of the launch schedule is marketing. Unfortunately, I’m terrible at it,” he explains to me, and in that, I see a hidden nerd who’s also afraid of sticking himself out there.
“How soon is soon?” I ask and play with my straw wrapper.
“Six-ish months,” he replies with a shrug.
“What’s in it for me?” I implore, even though I know I’ll say yes.
Brandon takes a sip of his drink, surveying me as if he didn’t expect me to bargain. “Seeing my smiling face every week.”
“Tempting.”
The waitress comes back over to our table to drop off our food. The smells hit me and I have to stop myself from moaning.
I weigh Brandon’s offer. Apart from the two summer classes, the lack of piano lessons, playing piano when I get the motivation to do so, and working at the TapHouse—most of my days are free. So why am I hesitating to say yes to his offer to help promote his game?
My routine, mainly. It keeps me from spiraling.
One of the things my therapist has encouraged me to do is to slowly disrupt my routine.
This—being around Brandon for more than a few hours doing something not in my daily routine—would be the disruption I need.
On the one hand, maybe working on the marketing for his game will help me get out of my musical rut.
I mean, I’m a creature of habit, but maybe this could work.
But something else is holding me back. Something I’ve never been able to put a name to. Is it feelings? It’s not a crush. What I do know is that all rational thought seems to fly straight out of the window whenever he’s near and I’ve yet to decide if that’s a good or bad thing.
“So have you overthought it yet?” Brandon asks as he wipes off his hands and mouth.
My pizza falls out of my hands and I look up at him with wide eyes. “Huh?”
“Overthought why it’s a bad or a good idea that you should help me with marketing.”
I feel my head turn as he accurately reads me. “I’ve thought about it,” I correct with a smile, emphasizing the word.
“And?”
“I’ll help you. But we need to set ground rules."
Brandon and I finish eating and thank the waitress, who comes to collect our empty plates before looking back at each other.
“What sort of ground rules?” he asks and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“The first rule is that we keep the personal things out of this.”
All traces of humor and lightness are gone as Brandon nods. “Agreed.”
“And the second rule is no more attempting to kiss me.”
He rolls his lips together as a way to suppress the smile that I see wants to break free. I won’t deny that I like kissing Brandon, but as much as I liked kissing him, I don’t see how I can ignore our family’s broken relationship.
When he sees I’m not joking, he sobers up. “Okay. Deal. No more attempting to kiss you. Until you ask,” Brandon adds at the last second.
Rolling my eyes, I take a sip of water before asking my next question. “When do you need me to start?”